


it's rotten work

by writinqs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, what can i say i love some Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinqs/pseuds/writinqs
Summary: “What now?”“This,” Crowley says, and he slots his fingers between Aziraphale’s. The movement of his hand bending into Aziraphale’s carries a finality, something that arrives at Aziraphale’s feet and washes over him. Crowley’s hand crooks upwards, holding their entwined hands up for Aziraphale to see. “Us.”





	it's rotten work

**Author's Note:**

> basically i wanted to use that "I'll take care of you." "It's rotten work." "Not to me. Not if it's you." quote from An Oresteia (trans. Anne Carson) with aziraphale and crowley cause i'm GAY and i love TENDERNESS. 
> 
> i've never written fic before and i wrote this in an hour because i was going absolutely crazy absolutely stupid. enjoy.

The bus ride back to London was meandering. They moved along narrow dirt roads and passed between hamlets. The other passengers looked out the window all the while. Every so often their brows would stitch inward or they’d open their mouths as if to say something before falling silent and wilting back into their seats. It quickly became clear that the bus wasn’t going to Oxford, though no one voiced this observation. They merely watched the trees and buildings pass, quietly welcoming each misdirected turn.

Aziraphale and Crowley, for their part, remained mostly silent. They passed wine back and forth, Crowley sometimes nudging the bottle against Aziraphale’s leg and saying, “Here, angel.” No one sent disapproving glances in their direction, and Aziraphale got the feeling that, somehow, what was wine to the two of them must have appeared as water to everyone else. Crowley sat in the window seat, his crooked arm perched beside Aziraphale’s shoulder and his right leg extended outwards and angled to one side. Every so often, when they hit a pothole, Crowley’s thigh brushed Aziraphale’s knee. More than once, a bump caused Crowley’s limp fingers to flutter over the spot on Aziraphale’s chest just below his collarbone. In past years, Aziraphale might have shied away from this kind of contact. He preferred everything carefully portioned and predictable; a handshake here and there, at most. But things were different now, he recognized. It was too early for him to say how. He did know, though, that when the movement of the bus sent his knee knocking against Crowley’s leg, he didn’t shift away.

– – –

“I’d say we did rather well,” Aziraphale said after a final sip of wine. “All things considered.” He smiled a bit. The wine had sent him into the pleasant, slurred state just beyond a light buzz. Everything was warm. Colors dragged into each other when he moved his head too quickly. To stay focused, he watched Crowley.

“‘Rather well?’” Crowley repeated. His legs were slung over the armrest of his tall, velvet chair. His tone was incredulous, but his smile was more fascinated than disbelieving. Aziraphale knew that smile well. He recalled, dimly, the first time he’d seen it, when he’d let slip the fate of his flaming sword. 

“That’s all you’re willing to give us?” Crowley said. In a movement that must have been stolen from his serpentine form, he was out of his chair and standing. He held his own bottle in his hand, swinging it about by the neck. “I’d say we did bloody fantastic, all things considered. I mean, we bested the Great Plan. You and me. Damn impressive, don’t you think?” He moved around the room as he spoke, spinning and punctuating the last word by landing a fingertip on Aziraphale’s nose. Aziraphale was glad when he turned to move back into his seat. He had fair control over his human appearance, but the blushing was one thing he’d never quite been able to quell.

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Crowley’s sitting again, only this time it’s his hand that’s draped over the armrest. His wrist, drooped downwards, flicks up. From where he’s sitting, his fingers are just able to brush Aziraphale’s. Something hitches in Aziraphale’s chest, and he watches Crowley repeat the motion. Only this time, Aziraphale shifts his hand to the side and flexes his fingers out so that when Crowley’s fingers meet his, he can capture them. A quiet blooms between them and Aziraphale barely breathes through it. Their hands never meet, not fully. Their fingers twist and tangle together, disentangling the moment they do. Aziraphale watches the movements of their hands, wondering how something as slim as Crowley’s index finger can show him parts of his hand he wasn’t before aware of in a mere instant of contact. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says. He can hear the catch in his own voice, somewhere between the two syllables of the word. He continues to watch their hands, and the movement between them doesn’t stop. He can feel Crowley watching him now. With their hands together, it’s too much to meet Crowley’s gaze. It’s almost too much merely knowing Crowley is watching him.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley’s voice is even less than a breath. That last word, angel, never ceases to amaze Aziraphale. The way it aches in Crowley’s voice, the way he states the most basic form of Aziraphale’s being as if it’s something to be praised in and of itself.

“What now?” 

Another silence slides between them. At intervals, Aziraphale flicks his eyes up to Crowley. Now Crowley is watching their hands, mouth barely open.  
“This,” Crowley finally says, and he slots his fingers between Aziraphale’s. The movement of his hand bending into Aziraphale’s carries a finality, something that arrives at Aziraphale’s feet and washes over him. Crowley’s hand crooks upwards, holding their entwined hands up for Aziraphale to see. “Us.”

“I’m afraid, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. His face moves like he’s making an apology. Finally, he is able to look at Crowley without pretending his gaze is elsewhere. As soon as he speaks, he feels Crowley’s thumb pressing circles into the knuckle below his index finger. Crowley says nothing, and Aziraphale moves forward. Speaking almost feels contradictory. He is afraid, he knows. But he’s also never felt safe enough to voice it. Nonetheless, he continues.

“Gabriel, Michael, the Almighty. They’re all still there. Same goes for you. Beezlebub. The Adversary. It’s not as if they didn’t see what happened.” The movement of Crowley’s hand against his anchors him, but his words continue without thought. These are all things he has to say, he thinks. With Crowley watching him, he finally believes that his fears won’t adopt a life of their own once spoken. The act of speaking them is a wound, a spilling, one that Aziraphale must allow.

“They’ll come for us. You must know that. And what if…” Since that night eleven years ago, this was something he’d wondered. Foolish, he’d always chided himself. He didn’t feel that now. “What if everything we did was wrong? I don’t mean wrong as in against the Great Plan, but wrong as in...bad? Just plain, morally, wrong? What if this is going to hurt more than it helped?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley speaks his name carefully and slowly, giving each syllable its space. It lifts Aziraphale’s eyes again. “Listen to me. We did the right thing. If we’d sat back and done nothing, that would’ve been letting heaven and hell use humankind as pawns in their age-old feud. Billions of lives to settle some petty bad blood.” He waved his free hand and frowned briefly. “No one in their right mind would allow that. You know that. Really, you showed me that.” His hand tightened around Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale felt himself deflate into his chair. He wondered exactly which shade of gold Crowley’s eyes could be matched to.

“As for Beelzebub and Lucifer,” Crowley continued, “I can handle that. And if heaven, if Gabriel or the Almighty so much as look in our direction,” he bobs his hand up and down, moving Aziraphale’s with it, “I’ll take care of you.”

Aziraphale smiles and his eyes move down and up, unsure of where to land. The smile flutters between a grin and a grimace. “It’s rotten work.” He speaks like he’s making a joke, but his head and voice shake.

“Not to me,” Crowley says. Again, his voice is enough to lift Aziraphale’s gaze and to still his movements. Crowley is watching him with a stillness Aziraphale has rarely seen from him. “Not if it’s you.” 

Crowley’s words are whispered, and there’s a brief instant of quiet in which the two watch each other, Crowley staring and showing how much he means this and Aziraphale trying to absorb what that means. Then, one or both of them is moving, though Aziraphale can’t tell which. Everything is in tandem, each movement canceling another out. Aziraphale is aware that he’s migrated to Crowley’s chair, and he’s aware that Crowley’s free hand is pressed against the crook in his back, and suddenly he’s almost painfully aware of Crowley’s mouth against his, soft and slow and timed perfectly after sitting in a back pocket for 6,000 years. Aziraphale moves softly and slowly with him. His eyes are closed, but he almost swears he can see bursts of light, both from the joy of what this means and from the sudden realization of all the other instances throughout history when they could have been doing this but weren’t. 

They break away and Crowley leans his head into the juncture of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. Eyes wide and breathing heavy, Aziraphale does the same. For a few breaths, they sit there, still and feeling the press of each other against chest and neck and back. 

“We’re on our side now,” Crowley says, his words soft against Aziraphale’s sweater. 

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t suppress the smile that lifts his lips. He pulls apart from Crowley to look at him, smiling deeper and wider and almost laughing at how long it took the two of them. But he can’t complain, because they’re sitting here, together, now. “I rather think we are.”


End file.
